One True Patriot
by SSJ-Alhazred
Summary: Patriots-verse. It's 2014; join Master Gunnery Sergeant Brad Colbert and Staff Sergeant Ray Person for their final battle aboard the USS Missouri. Colbert/Fick.


_Warnings for violence (somewhat explicit) and slash (not all that explicit.)_

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**One True Patriot  
**Alhazred - alhazred(DOT)livejournal(DOT)com

_Not For Profit work; Metal Gear Solid © Kojima Productions/Konami, G-Kill © HBO/Evan Wright et al. This work of fiction should not be considered a prediction of nor an insinuation about the lives of any real person.  
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It's oh-dark-thirty when Brad is woken up. With less than two hours of sleep total between the past two days, he doesn't have the strength to express his annoyance. This was easier in Afghanistan, when he was young and wide-eyed and had never heard the word "la-li-lu-le-lo" before. It was _slightly_ harder in Iraq, when he wasn't nearly as wide-eyed - not that anyone would notice _that_ difference in the Iceman - but he'd still been young.

"Patriots?"

He mumbles it because he's thinking about it, he's not thinking about how he _has_ heard this word before, how this is more about context than anything. That would require more sleep. It would require less _nightmares_ about being in Europe and watching Liquid Snake slaughter most of his men.

_Bang._ He's going to hear that in his head once or twice a day forever, Brad thinks. _Bang! Bang!_ In fact, he remembers that before he even remembers the name. Liquid Snake. _Guns of the Patriots!_ It's like a script for a bad action movie is leaking into his head.

Nate had bought him a copy of _In the Darkness of Shadow Moses_ for his birthday some years back, because anyone who was _anyone_ in the military knew who Solid Snake was. He's never figured out if Nate considered it a gag gift or not.

Fortunately, the fact that he's mumbling incoherently as he forces his eyes open despite the sting behind them means the Marine waking him up doesn't hear, doesn't ask him why he said it. The moment, the brief, perfect moment where Brad isn't awake enough to realize it isn't Nate waking him up after they've spent all night rutting like they were still twenty passes, and reality ensues.

Part of reality ensuing is that the Marine waking Brad up turns out to be one Staff Sergeant Ray Person, and oh _god_ is Brad glad he hasn't given him something to talk about. Ray's normal talking is bad enough. "Yo, Brad. You're being summoned, man."

Brad doesn't say anything to him, and Ray just taps the side of his helmet before he tugs his balaclava back on. The truth of the matter is that Ray makes him a little uncomfortable right now. It's not anything Ray's done, but Ray isn't immune to the viral _fear_ hitting the globe, the uncertainty about what's going to happen next, how bad it'll be when the 'first global ceasefire' eventually gives way to someone grabbing for something that isn't theirs. Having Ray as a constant, someone who never, ever changed day to day, year to year, has always been a comfort, even if what Ray refused to change from is being loud and annoying.

The problems, Brad thinks, will start on a small level, then bigger and bigger until the people with illegal, non-ID tagged guns become at odds with Outer Heaven's PMCs or, worse, people who _don't_ have guns. Brad expects the conflicts in the Middle East and Central America to start ballooning out as unrest increases, throwing up the war price and giving the PMCs an ample place to begin clamping down, places where their control will be welcome.

Walking away from Ray as fast as he can because Ray isn't one to handle helplessness well, Brad wonders which one of them feels the actual dregs of SOP withdrawal worse than the other. Unlike Brad, Ray's had bullet wounds since the System's been implemented, but if he's suddenly suffering PTSD over it, Brad can't tell.

It's a blur, the next fifteen minutes. He spends five seconds - but only five - after he's done talking with the Sergeant Major wondering if the conversation actually happened. When he realizes that no, he _didn't_ dream it, that's when he starts walking. He has things to do, men to brief, men to _comfort,_ really.

There's less formality than usual, protocol ironically going out the window after he'd spent the last forty-eight hours living, breathing, eating...hell, even pissing protocol and discipline to keep the Marines from losing their heads. _Treat your guns as if they aren't useless. Illegal, non-ID-tagged firearms aren't suddenly allowed. Shower and rest in shifts so someone is always ready to go. Sleep in your BDUs; boots, helmet, balaclava included._

Remembering a time when Marines didn't wear ski masks, Brad realizes he hates them because the sad, awful truth of the matter is that most of the Marines he's met aren't badass enough to pull it off. Sure, they're all trained killers, though less so since the nanomachines started helping with the mentality. But being a trained killer, Brad's learned over the years, is oddly _not_ the same as being badass.

They snap to attention immediately, waiting for someone to say something. It's obvious to them Brad will do the talking, since he's standing right in front.

Protocol takes a backseat to showing a human face. It is, again, a contradictory feeling Brad experiences as he tucks his helmet under one arm, yanks off his ski mask, and pays attention to his gloves as he pulls them off. He doesn't start talking until he starts making eye contact with them, one at a time. "I know you were all expecting to get the hell out of here, enjoy your leave at home and wait for your orders after you graduated. If you're _smart,_ you were expecting to to be shipped off to one of the warzones out in the third world and watch the big PMCs fuck shit up while you just get shot at and get told you aren't allowed to fire back."

There are days when Brad is surprised there are still Marines, considering how much better the private sector pays. He and Nate have had offers from Praying Mantis and Raven Sword, respectively. Brad would've been training PMC recruits for the Middle East, Nate would've been a glorified clerk. They didn't bother returning the phone calls.

There'd been a point where they didn't return each _other's_ phone calls, because Brad just couldn't bring himself to leave the Corps, while Nate considered the Corps he'd been an officer in long dead and buried as soon as nanomachine injections became part of mandatory shots. In the end, Nate had folded. In the end, Nate would be the one saying 'I told you so.'

Raising his voice just slightly, Brad takes the subtle approach to firing the Marines up. He doesn't consider them recruits because what he said about their graduation is true, and if the Corps is willing to forget about that while the world is going to shit, he doesn't see a problem with ignoring a technicality while in the process of making them part of the solution. These men are, one way or another, destined for the history books.

As such, Brad needs them raring to go, not thinking about how green they are. He's not the Iceman because he shouts, he's the Iceman because he walks down the line of Marines as he talks, his voice betraying determination and nothing else. "We, instead, are going to fire right the fuck _back._"

Everything after that is ancillary, everything about the _Missouri_ being scheduled to arrive at 0900 in the morning, how they're going to be on it, how there'll be a solution to the ID problem before then. He really wishes he knew what the solution _was,_ because short of completely exsanguinating himself, he doesn't know how he's going to get around the SOP lock.

* * *

It's noon in local time when the phone rings, and Nate Fick is woken up by it. He's felt compelled to stay awake for most of the night, knowing that if all hell breaks lose in the neighborhood, it'll probably be at night. It's not that bad yet; violence is very isolated and minimal right now, they say on the news. Assuming they're not lying, the 'first worldwide ceasefire,' as the UN calls it, is just that. It won't last forever, though. If things keep going the way they are, people will eventually realize that it takes tools and other resources to maintain a society that isn't anarchy, that if nobody has guns, the military and the police are nothing but pointless and outnumbered.

The phone is either going to be family or Brad. Nate hopes its Brad, because his family is in a decent neighborhood like this and he knows they're relatively safe, there aren't unregistered guns that still work floating around decent neighborhoods. Not yet.

Half-asleep, Nate plods down the stairs and into the kitchen, his bare feet sticking a little to the tiled floor with each step, his sweatpants way too warm. Not caring about comfort at the moment, he finds his phone sitting neatly on the counter, takes one look at the caller, and fumbles to answer it to much he almost drops it. "Brad."

"Hi."

The tension is thick enough to clog the phone line. Nate stares at the pistol sitting on the table, his old sidearm never turned in for recycling, never integrated into the System. Wanting to tell Brad he'd _told_ him so, that the military just wasn't what it used to be and this proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt, Nate remembered when Brad first called him after SOP had been first hijacked. He hadn't rubbed it in then, either. "Are you alright? What's going on?"

Nate asked this question because he knew the answer. He knew Brad was going to say something like 'I don't know anything more than you do, probably less because I haven't had a chance to watch the news and laugh at the anchors panicking over everything.' It wouldn't be in so many words, though.

Having asked this question because it was _safe,_ Nate it more than a little floored when Brad answers, "I don't have long, I just wanted to call you before we ship out."

Nate nearly drops the phone. Ship out? _Ship out?_ With who, Person and new recruits with guns that won't shoot? Did Craig Schwetje make General when no one was looking? This about takes the cake; Nate can't rightly believe this is happening in reality, and his pretense for respecting Brad's now unquestionably bad decision to stay in the Marines falls away. "What do you mean, _ship out?_ Brad, you're going to be fucking _cannon fodder._"

"I've been assured the SOP problem will be taken care of." Brad's voice is flat as he answers. He doesn't add 'I am assured of this.' "We're the only ones who can do this, Nate. Literally, we're the only ones. Anyone else close enough for the _Missouri_ to pick up's already been in combat before we lost SOP and...well, no one like that is...viable."

"They never even tell anyone what it _stands_ for," Nate rubs the bridge of his nose with his other hand, wondering if that counts as an 'I told you so.' His numerous F-bombs probably make it obvious, despite his voice not raising very much at all. "Fucking secrets and fucking arrogance over fucking technology..."

"'Sons of the Patriots.'"

"What?" Blinking, Nate has to think for a second to make the words sink in.

"'Sons of the Patriots," Brad repeats. "We can actually say it now, and...never mind, it's not important."

Nate loves Brad. He really does. He wouldn't have stayed with him despite the insane amounts of stress that came with having an active duty boyfriend if he didn't. There have been times in the past when he's wished he didn't think Brad was worth it, so he could say 'that's it, I'm done' the next time Brad told him he was on his way to go get shot at all over again. This is one of those times.

Nate _really loves_ Brad, so he bites his tongue and resists the urge to tell Brad being assured of something in the Marines is like being told a scribble on scrap paper is a map to El Dorado.

"Brad, I," Nate trails off. Really, it gets to a certain point where, despite how ridiculous everything is, Nate can't help but sigh and resign himself to their fates. It's like being over-tired, and he stops being mad at Brad for these things because he really doesn't _want_ to be mad at Brad for just doing what he wants to do with his life.

"I know," Brad answers, cool as ever, even over the phone. "I love you too."

There's really only one thing Nate can think of saying. "Come back."

"I will." Older and wiser than a decade ago, both of them know that Brad really means 'I'll try,' but it's bad luck to say it out loud. "Later."

Brad hangs up the line first, and Nate goes back to staring at his pistol, planning on turning on the news shortly, while he thinks about how his boyfriend is, perhaps, the only real patriot he's ever known.

* * *

It's nothing short of _spectacular_ when the Striker speeds onto the grounds like it didn't even need to pass the checkpoint and skids to a stop, turning a full ninety degrees as it does so, leaving skid marks all the way to the Marines.

It gets worse when a man Brad immediately thinks must be a pimp climbs out of the hatch, followed by a hairless monkey that he really hopes isn't one of the pimp's _hos._ It's certainly effective; ostensibly in formation, the Marines utterly fail at keeping straight faces.

Wanting to ignore this man as much as possible, Brad looks over the Striker and notes the 'Eye Have You' painted on the side, near the much larger 'DREBIN 893.' Since Ray is already hooting and hollering and pumping a fist in the air and setting a _terrible fucking example_ for their subordinates, Brad sighs and says just loud enough for Ray to hear, "Christ, Ray, don't cream in your pants."

Brad is _expecting_ Ray to say 'No, Sir, _you're_ the one who creams in his pants over other dudes.' What Ray _actually_ says when he calms down is, "Too late."

Glancing up at Mr. Pimp, Brad is just in time to see him point two fingers to his own eyes, make a fist, and point down at all of them before he hops down effortlessly, followed by the monkey. The monkey is drinking from a can of soda.

When Mr. Pimp talks, he sounds like he looks; he spreads his arms out for dramatic effect, too. "Someone call for a gun launderer?" He's clearly amused, more than anything. "Man, that's a hell of a lot of XM8s."

A curt nod is the only response Brad gives him. Drebin pounds his fist on the switch to drop the Striker's rear door, and why he couldn't have just done that from the inside is a question Brad thinks about. Still, Brad knows what the man is here for; the United Nations is paying for him, for fuck's sake. He's been told someone named 'Campbell' is ultimately responsible, but he decides not to wonder if it's the same Colonel Roy Campbell, US Army, Retired, he once read about. Resigned to this fate, he turns back to his Marines, and the fact that he hasn't put that damn ski mask back on helps him project authority with his voice. "Line the fuck up!"

Just sitting on his Striker's ramp, Drebin motions for Brad to come forward. "Nah, let's start with you, Master Guns. It'll be like kicking off a ceremony."

Brad throws him his rifle and Drebin catches it in one hand, having paused just long enough for Person to nudge him in the side with his elbow like they're schoolchildren trying to keep their stories straight or something. He doesn't sit, he stands while Drebin works on switching out the ID locker with the counterfeit, the process lasting less than five minutes. That means they'll be lucky if he's done by the time the _Missouri_ arrives, and he has to launder their sidearms, too. It's enough to make _Person_ sit.

"And you need this," Drebin reaches up to a shelf, handing a syringe out to Brad. "Vet like you might have the first-gen model swimming around your blood. Even I can't make a laundered gun that works right with the old stuff. Your boys, no problem. Fresh meat gets the fresh version number when they enlist."

Glancing at Ray, Brad isn't sure what kind of advice he's looking for. They don't really have a _choice,_ so Ray sticks him with the syringe and he sticks Ray with another before he takes his sidearm back for the moment of truth, and he can't help but think it's ironic that he needs _more_ nanomachines to _un-fuck_ the nanomachines he already has.

They're not on a firing range, so he aims up and takes a quick glance over. The Marines are all holding their breaths, waiting for this moment, waiting to know if they'll be sitting ducks while they fail at carrying out their orders, or if they'll have a fighting chance.

Taking aim at empty air, Brad tells his trigger finger to just _pull the trigger_ like they'd all done the day SOP locked them out, only this time, his finger doesn't stop when it touches the trigger, it keeps going, the pistol kicks in his hands and the rapport is drowned out by his men cheering and whooping and pumping their rifles into their air.

Even Ray has little problem cheering through his ski mask. "Fuck yeah, holmes! Devil dogs get their guns off again!"

Finally, Brad sits. He watches each of his men take their turn, each of them going through the same bizarre cycle of emotions as Drebin unlocks their guns. Drebin notices it, too, and he almost says as much as he's working on one of the XM8s. "You the real deal, ain'tya, Master Guns? Done a little fighting before the nanomachines did it for you?"

"Afghanistan," Brad answers, not looking at him. He takes the soda when the monkey offers it, though. "Iraq. All the fun places."

"Your boys here," Drebin hands back the rifle, not caring if any of the other Marines are listening. "They're all good guys, trained all to high hell, never seen a firefight."

"Being in firefights didn't help anyone in Europe," Ray says. He's oblivious when Brad twists at the waist to glare at him.

"What's your point?" Brad turns back to Drebin. He _hates_ this shit so much, the only reason he'd been so apathetic about the System was its flawless, unobtrusive integration. It'd been a mistake to give it a pass for it's non-interference in his every day life, of course, but still.

"You don't think it's funny," Drebin has a slight smile on his face, but he's still looking down at the new gun he's working on, "That what you absolutely don't want on the battlefield is the only thing that has a chance of working?"

'"Funny' isn't the word I'd use." Not wanting to argue over Drebin's tactless choice of words, Brad resists the urge to let the spite slip into his voice. It really _isn't_ funny. Throwing guys fresh out of basic and onto the front lines like this would sound ludicrous any other time. He remembers what Europe was like, though, and functioning Marines, some of which will probably lose it, is preferable to 'veterans' who can't cope without the System. _Bang!_

"Don't sweat it, Master Guns." Another gun returned, another for Drebin to start work on. "What's the worst that could happen, you die?" By 'you,' Drebin obviously meant 'your men.' "People talk and talk all day long about how terrible the war economy is, but Outer Heaven pulls off its little coup, you might just be better off six feet under with the world they'll make."

"The world's just upside down, man," Ray adds. His voice changes to the tone he takes when he's going to get philosophical; the problem being that Ray's attempts at philosophizing have never wandered away from his origins as a southern-fried inbred hick. "That's all. Hell, you've always been a good example of that, Brad. I mean, I know you've been banging Fick long-term, but you _did_ have that chick for awhile, before that. Remember, the one who dumped you before you even figured out you're gay?"

"Ray, go down the line and chew out everyone for stupid shit." Brad just wants to inflict Ray Person Talk Torture on someone else for a change. "Pretend you're that old idiot Sixta for a few minutes."

Ray's always-sarcastic "Yes, Sir" signals his departure, soda can given by that stupid monkey in hand. Before he's in earshot of anyone, he does an abrupt about-face back to Brad. "Hey, Brad. Since you took that chick seriously for so long, doesn't that mean you're technically bi, not gay?"

Having started to take down his XM8 so he could clean it, Brad looks up from his spot on the floor of Drebin's Striker. _"Ray!"_

Shrugging with much more innocence than he actually has left, Ray just says, "Just wondering," before he leaves.

* * *

When Brad finally sees Solid Snake up close, he's underwhelmed. Solid..._Old_ Snake is just that, an old man in a ridiculous get-up. Unable to imagine being in combat wearing a one-piece that thick, Brad spends most of the briefing watching Commander Silverburgh slap her dorky teammate for trying to cop feels off the _Missouri's_ captain. He spends the rest of the briefing re-tooling what everyone is saying in his head, scripting out the briefing he's going to give to the Marines as this one goes on.

When that time finally comes, Brad finds himself in the same room sans everyone but Old Snake, because Old Snake is being _old_ and is passed out at the table in back, long burned-out cigarette between his fingers. It's kind of sad, and Brad can't stop glancing away from Ray and the team leaders to look at the sight every now and then. He wishes Nate was here, because he would sell his soul for a good El-Tee to share some of the burden with.

Fortunately, the Marines won't be launching an attack, so his briefing isn't going to be hard. Unfortunately, what's actually going to happen is going to be worse. Allowing himself one small moment of weakness and glancing at the floor of the dark room, taking the time to feel the ship sway back and fourth under his boots, Brad switches on the projector. All eyes are on him, most of them the only thing visible under ski masks, though the front of Ray's is pulled up over his helmet.

The first slide is the same map he'd seen before. "In a nutshell, this is what's going on; the guy who owns Outer Heaven has a highly-advanced submarine with nuclear launch capability, and if he's allowed to fire it, he gains total control of the SOP system. That means our IDs being locked out of our guns is the _least_ of the problems we'll see, and we're part of the mission to stop it."

One of the Sergeants raises a hand. Even behind the ski mask, he's clearly scared out of his mind. Nodding to him, Brad prompts him to talk. "Shepherd?"

"Sir, I thought nukes were outside what the enemy _already_ has control of?"

Brad doesn't want to think about how _ridiculous_ the explanation he heard about this is, where Liquid Snake went for his WMD, where the _Missouri_ hauled ass to after picking up its Marines. "It's a naked nuke. I don't know the details, and it doesn't matter. All that matters is, they have it."

"Won't matter once we storm the sub, right?" Ray doesn't bother raising his hand.

Some small part of Brad's mind wants to acknowledge that Ray has brains, considering he's realized that a boarding action will be involved, and this entire thing would be pointless if the target could fire without surfacing. Not only does Ray's tendency to assume things annoy him, but Brad doesn't like being interrupted without at least some attempted courtesy. "No, we're not conducting the boarding action."

_This_ news gets the whispers going, and Brad waits patiently for everyone to look at him again. He changes the transparency paper on the projector to a top-down view of the _Missouri._ "We're the bait." Glancing at Old Snake again, Brad continues, "Our initial objective is to defend the catapults mounted here." Scribbling three Xs at the _Missouri's_ port bow, Brad is prepared for what the next question will be when he stops talking. "A three-man assault team will use these to board _Outer Haven_ when it surfaces to take its shot. Their goal is to reach the sub's server room and upload a virus into the system to take SOP offline for good."

"Excuse me, Sir, did you say catapults?"

Even Ray gets in on the confusion. "Did you say they're _uploading a virus?_"

"I know," Brad sighs. "I had the same reaction, but the assault team has a better chance of succeeding if they're small and harder to notice while the enemy is focusing on us, and the team leader assures me the plan is viable; I'm _assured_ of this. Besides, we have something else to worry about." He circles the C&C on the _Missouri._ "If everything goes as planned, they'll be off before we have to worry about them, and we can focus on defense. Once the assault team is making its way through _Outer Haven_, the enemy's objective, whether they know it or not, will be to reach the conn and kill Doctor Hal Emmerich. He's a civvie, and he's the guy responsible for the computer stuff. _Our_ objective is to make sure they never reach him once they board us, and they _will._ This is the golden goose, people; this man survives at all costs. Every one of us is expendable towards this goal."

It takes this much for Person to finally take something seriously, and Brad can't help but enjoy it. As Brad would expect of Marines, even green ones, they have much less trouble taking this seriously than anything else. The only question he gets is from a Sergeant who asks, "Sir, why don't we just sink the sub?"

"One, we can't," Brad says. "We'd have to board it anyway and scuttle it. That thing has a whole lot more modern technology going for it than we do, wouldn't surprise me if the main guns won't even dent it. Two, the objective is to get _rid_ of the System. If we just remove this threat, the System is still there, and it's still crippled and waiting for some other asshole with delusions of grandeur to start this whole thing all over again. Any other questions?" There aren't any, so Brad doesn't dawdle. "Alright, let's get moving."

* * *

Brad sends Ray to be the Marine closest to Doctor Emmerich. He can handle a shotgun, and the confines of the ship's interior make this a handy skill. Besides which, despite everything, he can _trust_ Ray. _Bang!_ isn't the only thing about Europe Brad thinks about at least once a day, he thinks about feeling SOP switch off and not noticing much difference, he thinks about everyone around him, his men, losing it on the spot, screaming in anguish, attacking each other, some of them _shooting_ each other, he thinks about being paralyzed with helplessness, unable to do anything for them.

He thinks about Ray, pretty much the only other Marine he knows who is both _not_ fresh out of boot and _not_ reduced to a gibbering, PTSD-laden psychotic when the System switches off, tackling him into the water when Liquid Snake's FROG troopers opened fire on them. He'd been angry at the time; how dare Ray put their own lives above the others? How dare Ray have no trouble understanding that Brad couldn't help them, that making a choice between living or dying was the only thing they could do?

Eventually, Brad had realized, in allowing him to cheat death, Ray had made sure he'd still have a chance to see Nate again, and he _very much_ wanted to see Nate. He would settle for being able to _call_ Nate right about now.

Sergeant Shepherd's team is the first Brad inspects. It's not really an inspection so much as assurance. He wants to know his men are handling preparation for battle well, because if they aren't, they're not going to handle _battle_ all that well either. There's already something off, and he realizes it once he tells the Marines 'at ease' and looks over them. "Aren't you missing someone, Sergeant?"

"No, Sir." Pointing up, Shepherd directs Brad's gaze to a high point on the ship, and Brad squints to see the Marine and the large rifle up there with him. "Got it from Drebin. He's the best shot I've ever seen, Sir, and he's got a clear line of sight to the catapults and anyone heading for the bridge."

"Good thinking." The sniper is also trapped with no where to go if someone notices him and fires an RPG or something equally unfriendly, but Brad doesn't say it. It _is_ a good vantage point, and he's glad the men are taking initiative and being creative instead of following orders without any thought on the matter. Sometimes, mindless drones were a good thing, other times, not so much. "Carry on."

It's the same sequence of events as he checks up on every team, seeing them setting themselves up where he's positioned them, until he finds Drebin holed up in the cargo bay, some of the Marines fine-tuning their weapon load-out with him. Thinking it couldn't hurt to at least see what's available, Brad paces slowly down the line of cardboard boxes with equipment set out on the tops, eyes scanning all the guns, all the grenades, all the...

"Skin mags?"

This is where Drebin notices him, turning away from some of the Marines who don't know a damn thing about guns except the ones they were taught to use. He's amused, though his monkey ignores Brad and tries to steal the ski mask off one of the Marines' heads. "Hey, it works. Lay that open in some places in the world, instant distraction."

"Like in front of Ray Person," Brad says under his breath.

The Marine having a ski mask crisis finally manages to snatch it away from the chimp, much to the animal's chagrin. He shakes it out and puts it back on. "Hey, most of us already bought half his stock just for _ourselves,_ Master Gunny. Uh, that's what everyone else says, anyway. Sir."

Wondering how old he looks that men under his command think he's going to disapprove of masturbation, Brad smiles wryly. "Right. Strictly hearsay."

His buddy laughs about the whole thing. "Nah, he's just worried his girlfriend'll find out and get mad. I keep trying to tell the dumb motherfucker he's gonna get killed if he keeps showing off her damn picture to everyone."

Deciding not to comment on the bad luck, Brad goes back to Drebin's stock and eyes a nice-looking knife, clearly not a KABAR. The hilt and the blade are one, solid piece from what it looks like, and he picks it up, tugging it from the sheath to confirm it. The closer look gives him a good idea about what it is. "This is one the new stun-gun knives?"

"Good eye," Drebin smirks. "Probably be a few more years before they're standard issue, but they work. You even get a couple hundred shocks out of it before it needs a recharge, only downside is it needs a while between uses. Then again, if you need to tase more than one guy that close, you're probably dead anyway."

It's sleek, it's functional, it's a nifty little toy, and hell, Brad thinks he might die before the day is done; why not? "How much?"

"First one's always on the house, Master Guns," Drebin grins. He does that weird hand signal again, where he points to his own eyes, makes a fist, then points at Brad. "I...have...you. We Drebins place customer service over everything, you dig? That, and the asking price is a tenth of what I'd need to make a profit of it anyway. Consider it a donation; I need the world to keep itself together just as much as you do."

Moving himself out of the way, Brad crouches down near a wall and straps the knife to his leg just above the ankle. With Drebin's chimp making noises at him, he leaves for the deck in a hurry once he's done, Ray talking over his helmet radio on his way. "Brad, we're in the home stretch; Captain says we've got twenty minutes until Haven surfaces."

"Get on the general comms and tell everyone to ready up," Brad sends back. He doesn't want to push his luck with being motivational; too many speeches from the ranking NCO and it would get stale. No, better to just hit the ground running at this point. He leaves the ski-mask off, he wants to be recognizable, wants his men to see him fighting right there with him. With SOP non-functional, the head-up displays projected onto their eyes through the nanomachines don't provide information like where other people are anymore.

It's almost scripted, when Brad finds Ray on the deck and falls in with Old Snake and the other two as they make their way to the catapults. Ray is escorting Doctor Emmerich like Brad told him to, and Doctor Emmerich is following Snake; Brad notices, in the daylight, that half of Snake's face looks like burnt hamburger, and he wonders about it while he listens to them talk.

Doctor Emmerich isn't bound for the catapults like Snake is, though, and it's Ray's cue to leave after the big, clunky contraption in his hands is handed off to Snake.

Brad can't resist putting a hand on his shoulder to make him linger for two more seconds. Loathe as he is to admit it, without Nate around, Brad finds it hard to find comfort in having anyone else but Ray around him.

"Whaddup?"

Brad just says, "Good luck."

"Yes, Sir."

_That's_ a sobering thing to hear from Ray Person. Getting his mind back on track, Brad notices the slight pause while Old Snake appears to contemplate whatever the hell it is his friend gave him, but it's obvious he's just staring into space. "This one, Sir."

Once the words leave his mouth, Brad feels silly. He knows he didn't need to tell _Solid Snake_ what to do with himself. The man may be old and decrepit-looking, but he isn't a legend for nothing, and the impulse to just say something to him made Brad forget common sense.

Much to his surprise, Old Snake just nods and 'Hmms' at him as he climbs onto the catapult, though he _does_ say something. "What won't they think of next..."

It raises Brad's morale, perhaps too much, to hear Snake say that he doesn't know how things like personal catapults came into existence from the world he knew a decade ago, or even farther back, if what he looks like is any indication.

It's when the captain calls for battlestations that Brad thumbs the PTT button on the side of his helmet. "Team leaders, sound off."

It's practically a chorus:

_"Rodriguez, ready."_

_"Hansen, ready."_

_"Polonski, ready."_

_"Shepherd, ready."_

_"Anslo, ready."_

_"Mosley, ready."_

_"Carosio, ready._

Brad lets Person rattle off a regular count, finally stopping at twenty seconds. Crouched down on one knee next to the catapult, Brad never tears his eyes away from the water as it gives way to the massive, floating fortress breaching the surface, waves from it washing against the _Missouri_ even this far away.

"Here it comes," Brad says to himself, before sending his voice to everyone; "_Brace yourselves._"

The initial salvo from _Outer Haven_ is spectacular for its utter _failure_ when the _Missouri's_ CIWS and ancient flak guns take down every missile in the air. It's the _second_ salvo that finally lands a hit, and even that isn't much to write home about.

It's not until the ship scrapes against _Outer Haven's_ side that Brad finally falls to his back, and by the time he's scrambled back up to his feet, the catapults are firing. _Now for the hard part,_ he thinks to himself, running off for the position he's chosen for the defense.

* * *

Knowing the enemy's elite troops are all armored women called "FROGs" helps morale until the Marines start seeing them. They're fast, precise, they're deadly, they're not afraid to get up close, and they _burn to ash_ when they die. Given their speed, after four of them fall to rounds from Brad's XM8, he starts wondering why he ever pined for the M16. He misses his old ACOG, but the red-dot on the XM8 is nice, and the gun's never given him any problems, if he's honest about it.

Still, what he _really_ wishes he'd thought of asking Drebin for earlier is an underslung grenade launcher for the thing, instead of just taking the stun knife.

The fourth FROG he kills ends up falling overboard just as she catches fire, but it leaves nine more just targeting Brad and the group he's with, Sergeant Mosley doing his best to keep his men on target. He's clearly scared shitless, but he's still getting the job done, so Brad doesn't throw orders at his men while he's right there.

"What the fuck is _that?_"

The 'that' one of Mosley's team is pointing at and shitting bricks over is a little black sphere rolling around, using it's three human-like arms to bounce over equipment so it can grab onto one of the _Missouri's_ guns, go hand-over-hand down it for a few feet, then launch itself further towards the center of the ship.

Recognizing it instantly, Brad kicks himself for not being _prepared_ for them. "Shit, it's a recon drone." Where two of the others miss, the Marine who originally called it nicks the drone in one of its freaky little arms enough to throw it off-balance, and Brad uses that opening to line up his kill-shot. It's small comfort; he knows there's going to be more of them, and even as he puts his hand to his helmet, he starts seeing more rolling around, he's on the starboard side of the ship now but the picture in his mind is of hundreds of the things literally raining down onto the deck from _Outer Haven._ "Ray, they're dropping Scarabs, we won't be able to stop them all."

Momentarily surprised when the response over the radio is the sound of a shotgun going off, Brad can only listen as Ray answers back, his voice thick with sarcasm and fake glee, "Gee, thanks for the warning and all, Brad, but, uh. They're already inside."

Paying attention to what's going on in front of him again, the first thing Brad sees are Scarabs rolling and jumping at a Marine from Polonski's team further up, his buddies frantically kicking them off when they bring him down, but it buys the other Scarabs more time to get closer without being shot at. The distraction has one more layer to it, as the fresh wave of FROG troopers is virtually unmolested while they gain ground.

Knowing full well that the numbers game is starting to take its toll, Brad taps one of Mosley's men on the helmet and points him at the FROGs, both of them opening fire to stem the tide. The whole thing is a dark mirror for the simple logistics of the military right now; the large PMCs owned by the Outer Heaven company are, by themselves, rivals for the dwindling armies of first-world countries. Considered as one group, as Liquid Snake's personal army, the implications are frightening. True to that, there are probably enough troops on _Outer Haven_ to just throw themselves at the Marines until they win through attrition. It's certainly the tactic they seem to be using.

"Polonski, get out of there, get your men back to my position." Brad's message is calm and cool and sent when he sees the FROGs make it through, one of Polonski's men being run through with a sword before they can fight them back, and _more_ Scarabs are still coming on top of everything else.

It's when Sergeant Polonski is halfway to Brad and Mosley that the _next_ big problem shows up. The larger Irving unmanned units come from out of nowhere just like the Scarabs, launched or, possibly, having _jumped_ from _Outer Haven_ to the _Missouri's_ foredeck, only two of them for now, but it's enough for Brad to feel their landing through his boots.

This time, Brad doesn't wait for someone to call the new development over the radio or freak out nearby, he does it himself. "Gekko! Gekko on the bow! Stingers, get on it!"

When the Marines given the role of anti-armor start firing and the missiles are streaking through the air, it's the first time Brad takes in the situation and he's proud, truly _proud_ of them all, so fresh out of basic training they've hardly fired their weapons before now, even the Sergeants are just random troops scattered about whose sole qualification for the mission is never having been in combat.

And here they are, doing their jobs, despite an enemy with superior numbers and hulking monstrosities of modern warfare bearing down. They're doing it pretty well for the first Gekko to go down before it even does anything, but it's replaced by two more, and then a third, and then the Gekko are firing and using their legs to brush men _clear off the deck_ and into the ocean, someone desperately firing a low-tech RPG that doesn't fool the Gekko it's aimed at, the missile simply thrown to the side mid-flight.

Drebin just didn't carry a whole ton of high-grade explosives. Even the Stingers are an improvisation, using MANPADS against ground-based targets. It's insanity, but then again, if anyone had ever told Brad ten years ago that bipedal unmanned units inspired by a bipedal walking nuclear tank would see service on the battlefield, he would've thought they were pretty insane.

One of Polonski's surviving men is one of the Stinger operators, and he has trouble with it, missing his first shot and only hitting a Gekko on the side, where it has plenty of armor, with the second. His _third_ shot nails one dead-center and the Gekko topples backward dead; it's the third one knocked down, and now they aren't being replaced.

It almost doesn't matter; one of the remaining units makes a high, ludicrous jump towards the center and lands above Brad, right above him, balanced impossibly with one leg on the guardrail and one leg propped up on the turret. The Marine with the Stinger is so startled he tries to dive away but the Gekko steps on him with its next movement, crushing him with a wet sound Brad doesn't ever want to hear again, the Stinger still in his hands. All the others start firing, but the Gekko only lets out its usual, surreal noise to scare them even further; the Marine next to Brad goes flying when the machine's proboscis wraps around his leg and flings him overboard, and it raises that same leg to step on Polonski, Brad trying to aim for the opposite knee, wondering if he can ruin its balance with enough bullets through the joint...

The sensor on the Gekko's head suddenly explodes in a shower of sparks, their sniper's shot hitting it clean center. Another shot from that Barret hits the knee Brad was aiming for with the same idea, and then another, Brad using the Gekko's confusion and blinded state to line up his aim appropriately and empty his entire magazine into the joint until he's proven right, the Gekko falling over onto its side and letting out one last mournful 'cry' before shutting down.

"Holy shit!" Polonski has to pull himself up off the ground, straightening his helmet, "I can't believe that just happened!"

"Believe it," Brad says. He gets his last fresh mag into his rifle and he realizes he's almost out, figures the same is true for everyone because they've been enacting what amounts to little more than suppressing fire, burning through bullets as more and more enemies drop, rush them and die, but more and more keep coming.

It doesn't stop and the next rush finally overwhelms his position. His rifle clicking empty, Brad lets it hang off his shoulder and pulls his sidearm to keep firing, going after whatever's closest, every FROG that that the others miss, every Scarab that rolls their way. He's not actually worried about it until another Marine stops shooting and calls, "I'm out!"

Now with less to keep them back, one of the Scarabs makes it through and jumps into the air right for Brad's face; he shoots it as its inbound and it hits him anyway, but he throws an arm up for it bounce off of and it hits the deck already dead. Like before, they swarm and the Marines still with ammo can't quite shoot them all, so they can't stop the FROGs from over-running them either.

Not one of the FROGs is shooting with their P90s; they're suddenly coming from all sides, swords up, a twisted, metal banzai charge designed to scare out any morale the Marines might have left. Two stab one of the Marines clear through the chest at the same time and Brad caps one of them right in the face before they can even pull their swords out, his sidearm clicking empty, the magazine dropping and another slammed home to shoot down the other before she can reach him.

"Keep fighting!" Brad shouts, eying one of the dead enemy troops and, burned to a crisp but with one piece of equipment still perfectly salvageable. "Use their weapons if you have to!"

"They're ID locked!"

That's from the other guy who's already run out of ammo for his XM8, and Brad realizes he wasn't specific enough. He ganks the sword from a dead FROG, grabs one from another's charred, ashed hands and throws it to that Marine. "_These_ aren't."

There is little Brad remembers as being sweeter then the next FROGs stopping in their tracks, backing away when they see one Marine, then two, then three, with their fallen sisters' swords. Brandishing it like he doesn't care about knowing how to actually be _graceful_ with it, it's common sense, the sharp part goes in the enemy, that's all. Brad runs at them dead silent save for his boots hitting the floor, the other two following and yelling at the top of their lungs right up until they bring their swords down.

Putting all his weight into that swing and bringing the blade down across one of the FROGs, taking care to step away as she immolates, Brad is smiling. It's not so much the act, just the irony; the enemy still had Sons of the Patriots to link them together and suppress their emotional reactions, and rushing them for hand-to-hand combat _still_ works better as a psychological tactic against them then it did _for_ them.

Another falls from Polonski's fire support behind him, a Scarab drone explodes when the sniper hits it dead center. The next thing Brad hears over the radio is Sergeant Carosio from the stern, apparently faring even better. _"They're retreating! They're backing off!"_

Not really believing they could've won already, Brad still has to wonder if it might well and truly be over even though the FROGs he can see _are_ backing off and the Scarabs _are_ rolling every which way but towards them. Once he's looking at it long enough he realizes they're not moving back, they're moving to the _sides,_ he's about to call out for everyone to take cover for whatever it is they're planning, but it happens just like it did with the Gekko.

There's only one this time, but it's much, much larger, rocketing out of the ocean next to the _Missouri_ and landing dead-center on the bow, tipping the ship forward under it's weight. The mouth, if it can be called that, opens up instantly and it lets out a noise different from the Gekko, far more of a battle cry than foreboding and ominous.

"Metal Gear?" Water splashing down in a short rain all over everything, all Brad can do is look up at Metal Gear RAY and feel hopeless all over again, the most he can do is run up and stick the sword through it's toe and he doubts it'll even notice.

He's seen plenty of Gekko, much preferring them when they were adopted by the Army as an answer to falling enlistment rates, but Brad's never dreamed of seeing the real thing, an _actual_ Metal Gear.

He's pulling a Thousand Yard Stare at the sight of it, even though he's never had trouble keeping it together through firefights and ambushes and near-misses around his head in over ten years, even before SOP was there to help. Knuckles white around the sword in his hands, he thinks this must've been what it was like for the Marines on the oil tanker before the turn of the decade, when the original RAY was stolen, and, just like then, RAY is going to cut the _Missouri_ up like butter and drown them all...

The oil tanker on the Hudson River didn't have guns, though. The _Missouri_ has guns, and the captain has enough wits about her through the battle and her ship pitching people around the deck as it rocks from the weight that she can order those guns fired right into RAY's face. It's spectacular, and RAY tumbles off the deck, straight into the drink.

A much friendlier thing named Ray shouting in Brad's ear over the comms is what snaps Brad out of it. "-out of there! Brad! _Brad!_ Wake the fuck up! _More are coming!_"

"Copy, Ray." It's not until Brad lets go of the PTT button that he actually snaps out of it, registering the severity of what Ray's said to him. He turns to look back at his men and shout "Fall back! Get inside!" before turning back in time to see a second Metal Gear jump from the water; this time, it lands to the side, behind the gun barrels, and takes a step forward.

Thinking fast, Brad dives for the Marine crushed earlier by one of the Gekko, and picks up the Stinger. Taking aim, he realizes there's no way he's going to take something that large down in one shot, so he puts the crosshair over Metal Gear's kneecap instead.

It's not a magic weak point like it was with the Gekko, just because Metal Gear is a lot bigger, but it _does_ force the monstrosity to shift its weight, the pseudo-arms flailing slightly as it howls that electronic noise.

This done, Brad drops the Stinger and makes a run for it behind Polonski, Mosley and what's left of their teams, some of them making it through the hatch to the inside of the ship before the enemy troops descend on them once more. Polonski dies before he can get there, gunned down by a FROG and then stabbed through the back by another to finish the job.

It's the last Brad sees before he's knocked over from behind, managing to shift his weight and turn so he falls onto his side, rolling onto his back as the FROG straddles him at the waist, her sword raising, pointing down at him, it's one moment where she isn't protecting herself. Brad pulls the stun knife, pressing the blade to her waist and clicking the switch, watching her drop the sword and keel over off of him.

He stands at arms reach when he gets back up, rage that he's better at ignoring than most finally dictating his actions. Brad isn't the Iceman for nothing, but he has his limits, and Polonski was it, just one casualty too many, pushing him over the edge so his teeth clench and his eyes see nothing but the death he wants to inflict on others. He can _see_ that two more FROGs are cutting him off from the hatch into the ship, another taking out that last Marine with him just fueling his rage, so he _knows_ there's no point in being efficient, he only raises that sword slowly, turns it down slowly, drives it into the FROG he'd knocked out with the knife because it feels _damn_ good.

It's surely a mortal wound but not an instant kill, so he's splashed with a few drops of blood instead of seeing her burst into flames like the others he's killed so far. The noise it makes is, strangely, not unlike the noise when a Gekko steps on a human being; it's more wet, though, and it's just as disgusting when Brad glares up at the others, turning where he stands to see them all and the ones approaching from further back, coming in from every which way.

The closest three take one step back, surprised just like before when Brad had first led the charge, but it's not going to be nearly enough.

The shotgun that sounds out behind them, causing one of them to drop dead, is a much better improvement. Seeing Ray standing in the hatch as he pumps the shotgun and takes out the other, Brad immediately turns and takes on the enemy as they charge forward at him one last time, stepping back with every swing, daring to hope he may make it when a second one goes down to his sword, cut across the throat, but it's not going to happen because Person's had to step away from the hatch to shoot at the FROGs coming in from the sides.

It works, he saves Brad from being ganged up on, but the enemy isn't stupid and they swarm around them into a rough circle, blocking off their way inside to safety. Relative safety, but it would've been better than the current situation. There aren't enough of them to form a solid wall, but it doesn't matter

Pausing as if worried the Marines might have some other desperate trick that will kill them all, inching forward slowly, the enemy troops give Brad and Ray enough time to put their backs to each other, Ray handing Brad a magazine for his XM8. "Here."

Taking it from Ray's hand at his side, Brad hefts the rifle off of his shoulder with his other hand, keeping his thumb around that sword's handle so he never has to let it go even as he puts that hand up to his gun, knowing that if he kills enough of them, he'll survive just long enough to run out of ammo once again. "I ordered you to stay with Doctor Emmerich, Marine."

"Yeah, and he's fine with Anslo's team." His answer half-serious and half-bullshit to cover his own ass, Ray adds, "But he won't be if these flaming _cunts_ break through your line, now, will he?"

"Semper fi, Ray?" The side of his mouth turning up ever so slightly, Brad says, "Thanks."

Wordlessly, Ray takes the initiative and blasts the nearest FROGs in the gut with his shottie. While he repeats the process, Brad doesn't move from Ray's back and doesn't bother aiming, he just shoots until his gun clicks empty one more time. He kills one with the sword as Ray yells, "Go!"

Thinking they might actually make it as he turns to run after Ray, Brad is sorely disappointed when he sees the Scarabs out of the corner of his eye, one of them jumping up and wrapping it's arms around his own. He hits at it with the butt-end of his sword but to no avail, it just shocks the hell out of him and he can't help but cry out and stumble, they're _so close_ to making it inside, where pulling the hatch shut will buy them just enough time to run down the corridor where there are Marines who still have ammo, where they'll slaughter the enemy all over again when they try to come through the choke point...

It doesn't happen. A FROG comes within half a second of killing Brad, he tries to move but the Scarab is throwing him off and her blade cuts through his vest and into his back, the pain motivating Brad to make a desperate swing with his free hand. The sword cuts, taking her arm clean off with so little trouble that he doesn't think it's _real_ at first. He fixates on his head-up display, the upper left corner where it says 'MGySgt Colbert' and now displays his vitals under that, plus a line telling him the injury isn't severe.

Not that it matters; the enemy still has SOP so she doesn't feel pain or shock, she just abandons her lost gun and rams her shoulder into Brad's chest, checking him right into the bulkhead next to the hatch, it's the shoulder he just cut the arm off of and he can smell the blood after he feels it going _everywhere,_ making him want to throw up, his own blood oozing out of his back now forgotten.

Trying to shove her away, Brad finds her grabbing his arm with her remaining hand and holding it against the wall, making his sword useless as she leans back and throws herself at him again, sending him down the bulkhead, flat on his ass with the wind knocked out of him, still pinned down. He tries to get his legs up, to push off the deck, but the Scarabs start _piling_ on him, completely ignoring the FROG, putting their weight on his legs and on his upper body as more and more pile on top.

Soaked in blood, pinned down by those creepy recon drones, another FROG approaching with sword drawn, Brad realizes this is how he's going to die. He wants to tell Nate he's sorry for not saving the world for him, for dying while Nate will be there to watch the planet turn to death and endless conflict for as long as he lives. Eyes going to the clear blue sky, he yells Ray's name with his last breath, knowing even as he screams his throat raw that Ray can't save himself either, let alone save someone else.

Defiant even now, Ray actually answers him, "Little busy right now," but it's soon the answer Brad expects, punctuated by one last round of buckshot from Ray's shotgun, _"Oh fuck me getoffgetoffgetoff!"_

Not looking, Brad hears it when Ray goes down and his back hits the deck, tackled by the gaggle of Scarabs. He wonders which of them will die first.

When the screaming starts, it takes Brad a few seconds to realize it's not the end of Ray's life. It takes him less time to realize it's a woman screaming, and then he realizes the FROG holding him down with the Scarabs is the source of the noise. She's twitching and she lets go of him, her one hand going to her own head as she throws the drones off, forgetting Brad and stumbling around until she falls.

When Brad catches sight of the one who was walking over to kill him doing the same thing, only freaking out even more, pounding a fist on the deck, he tries to move and finds that he has no problem doing so. The Scarabs have shut down, and he stands up, letting them fall right off. "Ray?"

He runs over before getting a response, watching Ray throwing Scarabs off left and right, still in a panic, still shouting, "Get off! _Get! Off!"_

"Ray!" Brad yells, crouching down and grabbing Ray by both shoulders, shaking him once. Staring him right in the eyes the entire time, Ray throws off his helmet and yanks off the ski mask, breathing like he was suffocating, scrambling to his feet and away from the drones. Brad wonders how long Ray's had big, dark circles under his eyes.

"What," Ray looks down at the machines, and then across the deck at the FROGs, each and every one of them losing their minds, screaming, crying, some assaulting others, some curled up into balls like frightened children. "What the hell?" Shaking, Ray runs a hand through his short hair, finally catching his breath enough for longer sentences. "How the hell did this just get all bizarro-world?"

Even Metal Gear RAY goes inert, turning into a rag doll that tips right off the ship.

"I don't know," Brad says. He watches as Ray brings his shotgun up, and he puts a hand on the top of it, slowly nudging it back down. He doesn't say anything to Ray, he just gives him a look that says, "No."

With Ray accounted for, Brad finally notices his head-up display. The amber readout is twitching with static, something is clearly wrong with it, not that it's provided any useful information lately anyway. He practically jumps clear out of his boots when the image of a _woman_ appears, clear as day, standing in front of a gorgeous beach with clear water washing up over and over.

It's when Ray waves a hand in front of his own face and says, drowning out the first words the woman speaks, "I'll be damned...nanos just cut out, man...they did it, all that computer virus bullshit worked, they took it right the fuck down," that Brad realizes Ray isn't seeing any of this.

_I've set this video to play back once they're all gone..._

"Brad?" Ray waves his hands in front of _Brad's_ face now, "Yo, Brad?"

Trying to think through whatever the hell is going on, Brad says, "Ray, go...go get some...anyone not wounded, round them up, we're not done. We need to secure that thing."

"Right," Ray runs off, sparing Brad a questioning look, but Brad pays him no mind whatsoever. He walks over the guardrail, past the FROGs all losing their shit, and stares at _Outer Haven_ while he tries to listen to the woman, whoever she is.

_Sons of the Patriots was only the beginning, the Patriots were planning to implement the System over the entire population...I had an obligation to stop it..._

_

* * *

  
_

Time passes faster than it should, because all Brad wants right now is to be left the fuck alone so he can watch and listen. He feels like this is the most important thing he'll ever see in his life, and even as he's on one of the rafts headed for _Outer Haven,_ he's ignoring everyone, even Ray, as much as he can, hearing as much as possible. It's even harder when Philanthropy's helicopter flies overhead, reaching _Outer Haven_ with the first few rafts in front.

_...but this virus' name is FOXALIVE, it's...the conceptual opposite of the nanomachines I created all those years ago..._

He doesn't know who she is, hasn't ever seen this face, didn't ever think SOP could have such far-reaching implications, and yet, here it is, this woman's _mea culpa,_ and Brad finally realizes the obvious fact that this isn't meant for his eyes and ears when she talks to Doctor Emmerich and mentions her _own death._ He feels dirty having this piped into his head, probably some mistake because his nanomachines still mark him as high enough in rank for it, or something. He orders his men to take the enemy troops prisoner, only telling them that yes, they _are_ taking prisoners.

_...our country is an innocent child once more, a new dawn is rising, now she can build a new destiny for herself._

When she cuts out, it's not quite instantaneous. The image freezes, distorts along with the rest of his display, and the whole thing blinks out, there one second, gone the next. He figures this must be what Ray was talking about, and he's left in _Outer Haven's_ map room while some of his men help Commander Silverburgh and that damn dork to their feet. Seeing the bullet wounds, Brad decides to stop laughing at the guy. He's pretty sure he sees someone up on the catwalk near the roof looking down at them, looking down at _him,_ right into his eyes despite being so far up. Brad's head tilts a little and he raises his hand to his helmet, wanting to ask if anyone's sent a man up there yet even though the uniform is wrong, but he blinks and the figure is gone, as if never there, prompting Brad to rub at his eyes harder than he really should. "Great, now I'm seeing ghosts."

After a cursory look at the weird equipment scattered all about, Brad wanders up onto the deck. The inside of the ship rubs him the wrong way, it's so clean and immaculate and orderly compared to the _Missouri,_ the design itself is like a symbol for the System, and after everything, he really doesn't want to think about the System.

The woman's voice is already fading from his memory, as are her words, and he's trying desperately to hold onto it as he watches his men come and go, some bringing prisoners back to the rafts so they can ship them back to the _Missouri._ The FROG troops aren't troops anymore at all, they're all broken and traumatized like his men in Europe had been. In absence of a massacre, the less debilitated ones are holding the ones who can't even stand, putting up no resistance. Briefly, Brad wonders if his men could've recovered, had they been given the chance to.

He's broken out of his thoughts by a voice loud enough to get everyone's attention. "Snake? _Snake!_ Where could he have gone?"

Walking up to Doctor Emmerich and the corpsman he's got in tow, Brad pays attention to someone for the first time since the fight ended. "What's wrong, Doctor?"

Friendly and shy despite red eyes and glasses that he has to nudge up his nose, Doctor Emmerich is clearly also confused. "It's...well, it's Snake. I left him right here to get a medic, and now he's...well, he's _not_ here. I don't understand, I didn't think he could even _stand._"

Wondering if Old Snake needed a moment the same way he just did, Brad nods once and says, "Alright, we'll find him...go back to your helicopter just to be safe, alright?"

Doctor Emmerich opens his mouth to argue, but Brad motioning for the corpsman to follow puts an end to it. Walking back towards the hatch he came out of, Brad thumbs the comm button so he can get Ray in on the search. His men have secured the whole ship, he doesn't rightly know where someone could be hiding when there are eyes everywhere. Everywhere except...

"Ray, meet me out on deck." Turning back, Brad jogs to catch up with the civvie he'd just sent away, because that helo is important now.

* * *

There are times Brad hates being right. Finding Snake at the top of the sail isn't one of those times. He's wordless as Doctor Emmerich, who, it turns out, is also their _pilot,_ drags Old Snake into their helo and takes off again, he and Ray are staring down at Liquid Snake's body as they take off.

And Ray, tasteless as ever, probably not even realizing it, glances back to Snake, and then down at Liquid again. He speaks in a low voice to Brad, probably loud enough for everyone to hear anyway. "You know, for brothers, they don't really look that much alike."

Ignoring him, Brad points two fingers down at the corpse they're leaving behind. "Bang."

The corpsman is getting frustrated with Snake, who will absolutely _not_ take his silly headband off. He's working to clean the cuts and bruises and fresh burns all over his face, telling Snake he's going to need stitches, and Snake doesn't seem to be listening.

He listens when Doctor Emmerich talks, though, and Brad listens to them both, though it's mostly Snake being quiet while the doctor explains more about what that woman was saying. When Old Snake looks across the cabin at him, Brad knows Snake must realize he saw the woman too, because he's paying attention and trying to put the pieces together.

It makes Brad feel self-conscious; he looks down at the blood staining his BDUs, and suddenly wishes he'd changed before setting out for _Outer Haven,_ especially considering how much of a non-event the capture operation turned out to be. It's when the helo lands, shuts down, and everyone takes their headsets off that Old Snake says something. "You look like hell, kid."

Brad doesn't know what to say.

* * *

Even once he's set foot back on the _Missouri,_ Brad still isn't quite done. He starts walking the ship from bow to stern, he doesn't have anything to cover the bodies with, but for each one he finds, he straightens them out on their backs, shuts their eyes, and takes a dog-tag. Blood from more than one gaping wound gets on his hands, but he doesn't care. He's waiting to take a fucking shower and change his clothes until he's done with this. There's a while mess of tags dangling from his hand by the time he's halfway down the ship, but there isn't much more to go. The bow took the brunt of the enemy offensive.

He _does_ find one lone Marine talking to the body of his buddy, clearly on the verge of losing it, and he decides not to get close. His instinct is to walk over and provide support, but he can't imagine doing anything but making it worse; he recognizes them, the one in tears is the kid he'd seen buying stuff from Drebin, and his dead friend is the one who warned him that showing his family photos to everyone would get him killed.

The sky is still clear and the stars are out as the _Missouri_ makes its way back to Hawaii. Wanting to imagine that Nate is looking up at this same sky, Brad hopes he'll get a chance to talk to him soon. Nate would know that they'd succeeded by now, so it was time to worry about whether or not Brad had given his life for that success.

At long last, Brad finds the bunk he'd been assigned on boarding. He tucks the dog tags into the side of his duffel bag and starts pulling out fresh clothes, not really caring about neatness anymore. He is, of course, _not_ able to just take a shower once he makes it to them.

There's a fresh change of clothes laid out on one of the benches, but Brad expected everyone else to be done here by now, and none of the showers are running.

But he's not alone. He hears the soft sobbing, sets his own clothes down on the bench, and walks into the shower without taking anything off yet. As if the day was just conspiring to give him one last shock, it turns out that the solitary Marine on the floor, sitting up against the corner, knees held to his chest, is Ray.

Really, Brad expects Ray to be jerking off at times like this, not crying.

"Ray?" Brad says his name more from the surprise than wanting to help, but he makes up for that, walking towards Ray slowly, not wanting to scare him. It's seriously fucked up, and here Brad was thinking he'd seen everything. Ray Person, of all people...

Glancing up at him, Ray lets his legs stretch out, his boots squeaking on the damp tiles, but he doesn't say anything until Brad slides down the wall and sits next to him. Words broken by his choking, he manages to get out, "I can't stop, Brad, what the fuck is wrong with me, I can't..."

The fact that Ray's never been more homophobic than is required by law of any Marine means he doesn't protest when Brad throws an arm over his shoulders and pulls him close. "You're allowed to cry, Ray. You don't have to apologize for it, just let it out."

"No, no," Ray shakes under Brad's hold, but he's not trying to get away. One of his hands actually clings to Brad's bloody shirt. "This isn't me. I didn't do this when SOP went down..."

"Ray, you've spent your whole career high on caffeine pills to get the job done no matter what," Brad tells him, "Then SOP kept you awake as long as you needed to be. Now it's gone and you've been pushing yourself even harder, plus all the shit we saw today...you're fucking _tired,_ Ray."

Idly, Brad wonders how long Ray's been here, though he doesn't ask. He rubs his hand in a circle over Ray's back and just lets him cry, and eventually, Ray doesn't have anymore tears. They sit like that for a little while longer, until Ray finally says, "You know, if you wanted to get me in the shower, you could just ask."

Brad couldn't stop himself from laughing even if he wanted to. "You remember when DADT first got canned, you kept outing me at the end of our deployments, then laughed at everyone freaking out and bugging me about it?"

"Most fun I've ever had in this shithole military," Ray laughs right back, finally pulling himself away from Brad, going right back to leaning in the corner. His eyes are bloodshot, like Doctor Emmerich's had been earlier. "I remember telling you there would always be a set pattern and specific reactions. There'd always be one who freaks out because he doesn't know how to call you a faggot without getting an NJP, the one who just doesn't believe it..."

"And the one who doesn't know some of us act straight and asks how it's possible for someone to be gay _and_ in the Corps," Brad finishes, letting out a sigh. "God, that one guy at 29 Palms who kept following me around for days."

"I still say that guy was hitting on you. No other reason for it," Ray said.

After a moment of silence, when it seems like Ray is getting better, Brad stands back up. "Anyway, I really need a fucking shower, Ray, and so do you, if what you smell like is any indication."

Fortunately, Ray stands as well, though he's slower. "You don't smell like roses either, 'Master Gunny' Iceman."

"My point exactly." Already yanking his shirt off and throwing it outside the showers, Brad still has little care for being neat. "So either take your clothes off or get the fuck out of here and let me get naked in peace."

Quite amused by this point, Ray soon throws his shirt out to join Brad's, and as he bends over to untie his boots, he says, "That how you get Fick to have sex? Dropping hints like that?"

"Are you kidding? Ray, we've been together for ten years." Grinning like an idiot, Brad adds, "I just start yanking his clothes off _for_ him."

* * *

When the knock comes at the door, Nate is terrified. He's listed as Brad's next of kin, he'll get the officers telling him about their sad duty if Brad's gone.

But it's actually Brad on the other side, he can't find his keys wherever they're hiding in his duffel bag, and he really, _really_ doesn't feel like searching for them. He's still in full uniform, though Nate hardly notices when he opens the door and Brad's immediate reaction is grabbing him in an embrace and shoving his tongue down Nate's throat.

This goes on for awhile.

It's not until Brad winces and comes up for air that Nate realizes just how rough he's being, how hard his fingers are digging into Brad's arms and back, especially when Brad says, "Wait, wait, bad idea...everything hurts..."

So they slow down, but the end result is the same, Brad can barely move without feeling a bruise or a half-healed cut or the gash down his back, it goes right down his tattoo, cutting through his inked Necron warriors and their monolith. They take a breather, Nate gives Brad a chance to set his duffel bag down and take his jacket off, at least. "Brad," he raises an eyebrow, "Why is there a sword in your gear?"

"Spoils of war," Brad has that little grin on his face, the one he gets when he's thinking something just slightly evil. He yanks the sword from where it's strapped to his bag, looking for the blood that's been cleaned off, and gives it a swish through the air so Nate can hear the distinctive, slightly-electronic noise it makes. "It's powered; it vibrates when it cuts. They call 'em high-frequency blades. I'll show you the knife I got later, too."

But that is, indeed, for later. Being Marines, they're nothing if not creative in dealing with problems like Brad's somewhat limited range of motion, so after substituting a good, long massage sans clothing in place of their usual, rather rowdy foreplay, Nate turns Brad over onto his back and does all the work for him, riding him for all he's worth before they both get off.

Opposite of of his need to clean up after the battle, Brad could care less about Nate's jizz - and there's _a lot_ of it - covering half his chest. Nate doesn't seem to care either, because he ends up laying with his back to Brad's chest, Brad's arms circled around his waist, Nate's arms on top. Their breathing syncs up every so often, and Nate can't resist playing with Brad's hands, running his fingertips back and forth over the knuckles, up and down Brad's fingers. "I missed you."

"I," Brad's going to repeat it, the same way either of them always do when one of them says that. Hell, the same way they do when one of them says 'I love you.' Now, though, repeating it feels cheap. "I can't live without you."

Moving a little on top of Brad, Nate turns his head towards him, though he's not facing him, he may as well be. "Are you okay, Brad?"

"Yeah, I am. Really, I am, it's just," Hugging Nate tighter, Brad just starts rambling, he doesn't know where it comes from, but he has Nate right now and he's not going to let go, so he figures he shouldn't keep it bottled up inside. "I've seen things...I've _heard_ things. I need some time to think about it."

Something in Brad's voice lets Nate know that he's not just talking about battle fatigue, and it creeps him out. What could be _that_ bad? Not letting the silence hang, Nate twists his neck to get a look at Brad out of the corner of his eye. "You want a beer?"

After a sad chuckle, Brad opens his mouth to remind Nate that his nanomachines won't let him get drunk. When he remembers that his nanomachines are in the process of breaking down into simple protein, what with not working anymore and all, his eyes go wide and his voice comes out a little squeaky. "Yes. Oh god, yes."

Nate grabs his shirt off the floor and uses it as a rag to clean them both up before he leaves for the kitchen; when he comes back, he has two open bottles, one of which Brad is already drinking by the time Nate settles back on the bed, more to Brad's side so they both have room to move, still on top.

One beer isn't going to get Brad very plastered unless he's developed some sort of weakness to alcohol from the nanomachines filtering it out, but the taste of it is exquisite, a sensation absent for so long he has to resist the urge to chug the whole thing at once. Part of this entails talking to Nate some more. "I met Old..._Solid_ Snake, you know?"

"Yeah?" At least, Nate thinks, this'll be interesting. "What's he like?"

"Efficient, smart." Pausing to choose his words, Brad remembers being unable to resist visiting Snake and Doctor Emmerich in sickbay while the _Missouri_ headed for home. He adds, "He's...unremarkable, but in a way that only makes you think better of him. I got to sit down with him for a few minutes."

"Now I'm jealous. What did you talk about," Nate asks.

"He said," Brad skips over the first part of that conversation in his mind, where he asked them about the Patriots, about that woman, what was he missing, the part where Doctor Emmerich explained just how deep the Patriots went, and what FOXALIVE actually did for the country. He _wants_ to talk about those things with Nate, they'll be just as important to Nate as they are to him. But not right now, not when he wants this moment to last. He doesn't want to be saying 'I swear I'm not making this up' for twenty minutes straight, not today. "He said he was sorry no one would ever know our names like his, he told me to be proud, because if fighting's the only thing I'm good at, at least I fight for what I believe in."

Nate reaches his free arm not holding the bottle up and over Brad's head, running his fingertips around the hairline at Brad's neck. He takes a drink, and says, after he's done swallowing, "**I** know your name, Brad. And I'm proud of you, too."

"I might not re-up," Brad adds.

"Do it if you want to," Nate says. "Don't live your life to make me feel better...we've gone for this long and lasted, haven't we?"

"I know," Brad says. "It's not that. I mean, I may not want to anymore...I sure as hell won't vote Republican again."

"Now I know somethings wrong," Nate's chuckle is half genuine humor, and half because he's suddenly a little nervous. "I remember when they found President Sears loaded for bear and dead near that thing that plowed into New York five years back, you _still_ wouldn't change parties."

"I don't plan on voting democrat, either," Brad laughs. "Not until the system...not until the politics are un-fucked."

Thinking he's on top of this as much as he's on top of Brad at this very moment, Nate says, darkly, "So much for ever voting."

"No, I don't think so," Brad is smiling, "I think there might actually be change soon. Just...call it a hunch."

"Maybe if the backlash from the nanomachine system causing so much havoc ever amounts to anything." Ignorant of the Patriots, Nate is likewise ignorant of what Brad is talking about.

Brad doesn't mind. He has everything he needs. "Might take a job with Philanthropy, work under the United Nations."

"Christ, Brad." Nate laughs, this time sadly. "With the war economy going down the drain, every third world country and half of Europe are just going to...oh, who am I kidding, you know all this stuff, you just like having a challenge."

"Nah," Brad answers. He thinks back to the Marines who followed him into battle, taking them from basic, taking into combat, watching so many of them die, nearly dying _himself._ "After the last few days, I've had enough challenge to last a lifetime."

"I can't say it wouldn't be nice to worry less," Nate admits. "And to have you around more. I don't know what I'd do without _you,_ either."

"Don't worry." Kissing him on the back of the neck, Brad tells him, "I'm not done yet."

Nate understands what Brad means, but he chooses to take it literally. "You want to go again?"

Calm and collected as ever, Brad says, "You think I didn't plan to? Nate, it's been...I don't even know how long, off the top of my head. How about you top?"

"Sure," Nate answers. "Should we record this rare event?"

Only downing the rest of his beer in response, Brad reaches the empty bottle over Nate's chest, scooting up against him. Nate gets the idea and clinks his bottle to Brad's, and Brad just says, "Here's to you."


End file.
